We mailed ourselves the moonstones home.Ten pounds of them, a private beachThat cuts and cuts and cuts the feet.Where all babies are born, but not any of mine. Who strews the gifts, who distributesThem, who carries them, what mailman.The stones were the way ToveJansson drew them. Empty circles,Somehow heavy. Shingle, beautifulMurmurous word. I think oftenOf the white light of the northAnd its artists—that the eye up thereIs more particular, somehow, becauseThe beaches aren’t sand, which is infinite.Shingle is people counted one by oneBy one. Tove drew the white lightWith straight lines. It is almost unbearable, Shining. The light at the end of the earth is mellowLike a fruit that can be had only there,Scooped out like passion, fresh,Shy to pronounce at first, like feijoa.In crescents on the breakfast tray,The pale pale color of peach moonstone.Who cubed them. What was the originalBody, what flesh were we first, in our excess,Sliced off from. The beach belongs to babies, Bikini mamas, and the old. It is theyWho live always at the edge of that blade.Toadstones, belly bling (remember?),And …